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The frightening realization that people live their entire lives like gerbils running in their wheels, and sometimes come away empty-handed.
I'm a teenager; I like to write, play music, and read old English manuscripts.
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"After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Look at that line. The words slip out so easily. Theyíre the sort of thing one says with a shrug. The sort of thing one half-hears in a preoccupied conversation. No one pays much attention to those little words.
But theyíve been bothering me lately.
Iím sure Iíve heard them before in my life. Iím sure Iíve said them myself. And theyíve gone unnoticed, either because the context was unimportant enough to hide it or I was too focused on something else to care. I guess it didnít hurt anyone that time. But yesterday it hurt. It hurt and no one even noticed.
It happened to a friend and a friend and me. We were sitting on the school bus home. Dark out; we leave school late. Talking little, trite stuff. The conversation twisted to somebodyís uncle who narrowly missed death in September 11th attacks. A girl says: "Iíll bet heís changed for life, huh? I canít imagine. Knowing every second is a gift-that you should have been dead, but G-d gave you more time." Someone comments on the loss of someone they knew.
The bus stops at her corner, and she gathers her things.
A girl offers sympathy.
She walks to the bus door, shrugs: "After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Then, without another thought, she hops onto the sidewalk and starts the walk home; the same walk she takes every day. The girls in the bus resume their conversation. Those sneaky little words have gone hidden again.
A person dies. A life ends. A black hole torn in the fabric of the world. Routine. Everything is. Itís just routine.
Lying in bed at night, reviewing the day in her head, itís those words that stick hauntingly in her mind. "After awhile it gets routine. Everything does." Routine. Her entire life: routine. She does the same things every day, every night. All her friends do the same things. Her mother, her family. She canít put words in their mouth, but she can predict where they are and what theyíre doing. Routine. Breakfast, bookbag, bus. Classes, break, lunch. Routine. Friends, dishes, laundry. Hello, goodbye, goodnight. Sickness, growth, death. Routine.
That girl is me, and itís almost too much for me to imagine. My baby sister grew up over night. Yesterday she was an infant. Today she walks, talks, laughs, sings. She could be in college by tomorrow. Routine. I didnít notice she had changed until just last night. Routine. Think about it. My G-d, Iím only going to be on this earth a certain amount of days and if I live every single one like nothing more than a tired routine, then did my life have any purpose at all? A person dies. Routine. Routine. Itís not routine!
Today is the third Tuesday in November of the 2002. I will never live this day again. When I go to sleep tonight, whatever Iíve done today is done and sealed. My parents, my friends. When I am sixty-five looking back, what will I remember? A blur of going to school and coming home and a few words scribbled on a pad of paper?
"After awhile it gets routine. Everything does."
Yes, weíre right to say it. Everything does get routine. Most people get up in the morning, go to work, go to sleep at night, and have no further memories of that day. When I am sixty-five, that is probably all Iíll remember. We run in our little wheels until we die, people mourn us for a little while, and then our memory becomes another routine.
Is there an answer? I donít know.
And oh, look at that, I donít have any more time to think about it. Because, you see, itís nine oíclock, and everyday I write from only eight to nine, and then Iíve got to make the beds. I couldnít continue writing into my making-beds time, or it would throw off my entire routineÖ
|READER'S REVIEWS (6)
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"Most of this, has already been said by numerous other authors. Some of which, developed this matters much deeper than this. My advice is for you to read some of them. Authors like: Albert Camus, Jean Paul Sartre, William Faulkner. I also advise you to read some portuguese authors like: Antůnio Lobo Antunes and the famous poet Fernando Pessoa. All of these can provide you a great reading experience, and a profitable one if you're willing to take advantage of it. Routine can lead one to monotony, despair, entropy. The act of writting should/must be a way to surpass such feeling. One most not acomodate him self with the life he's taking. " -- Ńlvaro de Campos.
"Thank you. " -- Pearl.
"This work touched on an issue that I think everyone can relate to at some, or -maybe as in your mind- all points in their lives. I wrote a piece entitled 'Routine' a while back but it never saw the light of day because it always tended to depress me immensely. This, however, was enjoyable to read and well written too, which I don't think can ever be bad points. I especially liked the last few lines!" -- Rowan Davies.
"Hey, Pearl. I can see why you liked my story. Although, I must admit, my story was not intended to be a message, or express the way I felt, it was only me fooling around with ideas in my head. I liked what you wrote, and a lot of the time I feel the same way, like your whole life is planned and plotted, everyday the same this the same that. That's why, for me at least, writing means a lot. Good story. Cheers." -- Robert Bell.
"hey pearl. how would school be w/out routine? picture this: school every other day of every other week in every other month... and chores, ditto... it would be bliss - but not reality! so do little stuff to make it more interesting and break out of the cycle. just a suggestion.." -- miriam.
"thanks, will do. i find music and things help me do that, make it more interesting and spontaneous. the point i was trying to make is that ppl can go through their entire day on auto pilot, and when it's over, it's almost as if they never lived that day. it's hard to explain...see above reviews, lol" -- pearl.
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© 2002 Pearl S
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